tomfooleryprime:

tomfooleryprime:

Writing is a process that often undergoes heavy edits… that includes responding to feedback. 

I had no idea this post would resonate with so many people. I let my vitriol surrounding several comments I received on a recent update get to me and it spilled out into .gif form and it’s now morphed into the most widely shared thing I’ve ever posted. So many comments and tags have said things along the lines of, “This was why I quit writing” or “This is why I hate writing fanfic.” And that’s soul crushing to hear, but I can relate. 

But while there are some crappy and entitled readers, there are also many brilliant ones and I’m so grateful for them. The huge response to this post made me go back and skim through the comments on my old stories, and comments like the one below are about half the reason some of those stories got finished, even if it was months later. 

Comments like these are so rare, but when they do come up, they leave me staring at my computer screen, drumming my fingers on the keyboard, struggling to convey my feelings about how their words have touched my heart. These are the comments that take the longest amount of time to respond to and the ones that cause me to wear out my backspace key the fastest. 

It’s easy to complain, but it’s literally just as easy to praise, so I just wanted to take a moment to recognize all those dear and dedicated readers who have propped me up when I wanted to quit. Readers like you are why I keep writing, and why I even feel honored to do it on rare occasion. 

And fellow writers, keep your heads up if you can. 🙂 

aegipanomnicorn:

finnglas:

Gather round, children. Auntie Jules has a degree in psychology with a specialization in social psychology, and she doesn’t get to use it much these days, so she’s going to spread some knowledge.

We love saying representation matters. And we love pointing to people who belong to social minorities being encouraged by positive representation as the reason why it matters. And I’m here to tell you that they are only a part of why it matters.

The bigger part is schema.

Now a schema is just a fancy term for your brain’s autocomplete function. Basically, you’ve seen a certain pattern enough times that your brain completes the equation even when you have incomplete information.

One of the ways we learned about this was professional chess players vs. people who had no experience with chess.

If you take a chess board and you set it up according to a pattern that is common in chess playing (I’m one of those people who knows jack shit about chess), and you show it to both groups of people, and then you knock all the pieces off the board, the pro chess players will be able to return it to its prior state almost perfectly with no trouble, because they looked at it and they said, “Oh, this is the fifth move of XYZ Strategy, so these pieces would be here.”

The people who don’t know about chess are like, “Uh, I think one of the horses was over here, and maybe there was a castle over there?”

BUT, if you just put the pieces randomly on the board before you showed it to them, then the amateurs were more likely to have a higher rate of accuracy in returning the pieces to the board, because the pros are SO entrenched in their knowledge of strategy patterns that it impairs their ability to see what is actually there if it doesn’t match a pattern they already know.

Now some of y’all are smart enough to see where this is going already but hang on because I’m never gonna get to be a college professor so let me get my lecture on for a second.

Let’s say for a second that every movie and TV show on television ever shows black men who dress in loose white T-shirts and baggy pants as carrying guns 90% of the time, and when they get mad, they pull that gun out and wave it in some poor white woman’s face. I mean, sounds fake, right? But go with it.

Now let’s say that you’re out walking around in real life, and you see a black man wearing a white T-shirt and loose-fitting jeans. 

And let’s say he reaches for something in his pocket.

And let’s say you can’t see what he’s reaching for. Maybe it’s his wallet. Maybe it’s his cell phone or car keys. Maybe it’s a bag of Skittles.

But on TV and movies, every single time a black man in comfortable, casual clothes reaches for something you can’t see, it turns out to be a gun.

So you see this.

And your brain screams “GUN!!!” before he even comes up with anything. And chances are even if you SEE the cell phone, your brain will still think “GUN!!!” until he does something like put it up to his ear. (Unless you see the pattern of non-threatening black men more often than you see the narrative of them as a threat, in which case, the pattern you see more often will more likely take precedence in this situation.)

Do you see what I’m saying?

I’m saying that your brain is Google’s autocomplete for forms, and that if you type something into it enough, that is going to be what the function suggests to you as soon as you even click anywhere near a box in a form.

And our brains functioning this way has been a GREAT advantage for us as a species, because it means we learn. It means that we don’t have to think about things all the way through all the time. It saves us time in deciding how to react to something because the cues are already coded into our subconscious and we don’t have to process them consciously before we decide how to act.

But it also gets us into trouble. Did you know that people are more likely to take someone seriously if they’re wearing a white coat, like the kind medical doctors wear, or if they’re carrying a clipboard? Seriously, just those two visual cues, and someone is already on their way to believing what you tell them unless you break the script entirely and tell them something that goes against an even more deeply ingrained schema.

So what I’m saying is, representation is important, visibility is important, because it will eventually change the dominant schemas. It takes consistency, and it takes time, but eventually, the dominant narrative will change the dominant schema in people’s minds.

It’s why when everyone was complaining that same-sex marriage being legal wouldn’t really change anything for LGB people who weren’t in relationships, some people kept yelling that it was going to make a huge difference, over time, because it would contribute to the visibility of a narrative in which our relationships were normalized, not stigmatized. It would contribute to changing people’s schemas, and that would go a long way toward changing what they see as acceptable, as normal, and as a foregone conclusion.

So in conclusion: Representation is hugely important, because it’s probably one of the single biggest ways to change people’s behavior, by changing their subconscious perception.

(It is also why a 24-hour news cycle with emphasis on deconstructing every. single. moment. of violent crimes is SUCH A TERRIBLE SOCIETAL INFLUENCE, but that is a rant for another post.)

I love a good lecture.

ripplefactor:

‘Rare cultivars of Tuscan and Umbrian fruit put on a vibrant autumnal display at this ancient monastery in the High Tiber Valley. Isabella dalla Ragione has spent over 40 years searching convents, family estates and abandoned farms for forgotten species of tree, bringing many back from the brink of extinction. Rebuilt after an earthquake in the 18th century, the chapel of the monastery still functioned as such until the Second World War. Its sacristy contains traces of a 14th-century fresco. The art-school dummy on the armchair gets brought out to make fourteen at the dining table if there are only thirteen guests.’

 Photography: Tim Beddow for World of Interiors, September 2014 ..

hannigram 12 do it for meeeeeeee

queeniebroccolini:

kototyph:

(x) 12. writer and editor au

Will is underdressed, soaking wet, and has a cup of black coffee in his hands that cost seven dollars; all of which are excuses he’ll give Alana when this client drops them for Simon and Schuster or someshit after seven years with Bloom Publishing and exactly one late afternoon meeting with him.

“… ‘a pile of pretentious garbage,’” the client, one Dr. Lecter, repeats. “I see.”

The wine bar cum coffee shop, Lecter’s preference for the meeting, is unnecessarily dim and a bit too warm. It almost makes the rain outside seem atmospheric, rather than a huge pain in the ass for anyone commuting downtown via public transportation instead of private car, or however Lecter got here. The man has a dusting of mist on the shoulders of his velvety-looking plaid suitjacket, but is otherwise dry down to his wingtips. Opposite him, Will’s buttery leather armchair is doing a great job preserving the puddle growing at the seat of his pants.

“Perhaps you’d care to elaborate,” Lecter says mildly, and Will sets his jaw.

“I’m sorry if that was too frank,” he says, because he owes Alana at least that much. “However, from the standpoint of your previous work, this particular manuscript seems… less developed.”

According to Will’s research, Dr. Lecter is a practicing psychiatrist who occasionally deigns to write what could charitably be called cerebral mystery novels. This book, if it ever makes it to publishing, is in the same vein, and in its current state absolutely unreadable.

“I see,” Lecter says again, fingers steepled in front of him. “Please, continue.”

Will takes a sip from the tall, narrow mug he’d been handed. It tastes weirdly fruity, but at least it’s hot. “At a thirty-thousand foot view? The themes you address are complex, and you don’t have enough progression in the plot to sustain interest or give emotional impact to the conclusion. This is basically five hundred pages of navel-gazing. This character, the murderer, wins by default– your protagonist thinks himself to death.”

Lecter has a faint smile, but before he can speak Will holds up a hand.

“Trust me, I know what you’re about to say. Your book is not going to be on airport bookstore shelves. It’s not for beach reading. Understood. That doesn’t absolve you from the basics of structuring.”

“An interesting choice of words,” Lecter muses. “One that implies I’m committing some kind of crime against literature, yes?”

“I wouldn’t go that far,” Will says, taking another sip of coffee. He’s starting to shiver, even in the heavy warmth of the small bar. “I’m just laying out the reasoning behind my comments in the draft.”

“I received them,” Lecter says. “I must confess, they are quite a bit more detailed that I am used to receiving from Mr. Chilton.”

And when they finally find the guy, I’ll be happy to swap back, Will promises silently. “All the editors at Bloom have their own styles. The goal is not to make this draft unrecognizable from the original, it’s to give it a little more life than your last monograph on psychotic symptoms and Graves’ disease.”

Lecter gives him a slow blink. “You’ve read that,” he says.

“I’ve read everything you’ve ever publically published,” Will says bluntly. Every bloody psychological thriller and niche entry in staid psychiatry tracts, and, “A lot of it was brilliant. Which is why I feel qualified to say that this needs work.”

“A lot of it,” Lecter echos, eyebrows raising.

“Most of it,” Will says, a bit grudgingly, and Lecter’s faint smile makes another appearance.

“Then, Mr. Graham, I look forward to working with you.”

Then Hannibal invites Will up the street to dry his clothes and “see his manuscripts,” heh heh

uuuuuugh there are so many ways I imagined this prompt going and none of them were as entertaining as this!!!! you are awesome and i love it and thank yooooou!!!

#how about if one of will’s other authors is freddie #and when she tries to commiserate with hanniabl over how much of an asshole graham is #she is instead met with the portrait of a man infatuated 

YOU KNOW IT

and finn/poe in 34 kthnxseeutomorrowbai

(x) 34. 

meeting at a masquerade ball au


“Hey. Hey!” someone hisses.

Poe stirs, then twitches violently as he realizes there’s a figure looming over him. It’s hard to make out details; the light above the table is off, and at some point in the during his last session with the First Order’s intelligence officers, blood had seeped down and congealed around one eye. He blinks, and the gummy lid comes slowly unstuck.

“Are you Dameron?” the figure demands, bending closer. “The pilot?”

“… who’s asking?” Poe whispers, hoarse and sore. He’s honestly curious, because either the Order has finally succeeded in breaking his mind, or there’s a man in a Teutonic knight’s helmet and chainmail hauberk accosting him.

“That’s not important,” the knight says impatiently. “I’m here to get you out.”

“You what?” Poe mumbles, but the knight is already kneeling down to yank at the straps keeping his ankles tied to the table. “Wait, seriously?”

“Yeah, seriously,” the knight says, and stars he sounds young. But Poe’s legs are coming free, then his shoulders, and then there are mailed hands under his shoulders pulling him off the table and onto his feet. When his knees buckle, there’s an arm around his waist to hold him up. “Listen, I need you to—”

There’s a burst of sound from somewhere above them as a door opens, jaunty music and raucous laughter. The knight freezes in place, and Poe does too, staring at the stone steps that lead into the dungeon where a long shaft of light has appeared.

There are footsteps, and the door closes again. The light disappears. It’s quiet for one second, two, and against Poe’s side the knight lets out a long, silent breath.

“What—”

“Look,” the knight says, turning to him. In the cold blue moonlight filtering in from the barred windows, Poe sees the shine of one dark eye in the slit of the helmet. The knight holds up an armful of dark fabric.  “I need you to put these on, okay?”

“What?” Poe asks as the knight pushes it on him, hands coming up automatically. “Why? What going on?”

The fabric unfurls in a floor-sweeping cloak, which Poe can see the utility of, but there’s also a black domino mask and a broad-brimmed hat with a long feather plume in the band. Poe stares down at it a bit too long, and the knight snatches the mask from the top of the pile and pulls it down over his head.

“There’s a party upstairs, and we have to go through it,” he says, grabbing the hat next. “I just need you to follow my lead, okay?”

He thrusts the hat at Poe’s chest, and Poe slowly reaches out to take it. The cloak is heavy and warm, the cowl deep as he pulls it up and settles the hat on top of it. “Is that it?”

“Crap, you have blood on your face,” the knight says, a little panicky. His hand comes up, but stops as Poe flinches back.

“I’ll get it,” Poe mutters, ducking his head and wiping under his nose, across his mouth.

“Hey,” the knight says again, a little softer. “Look, it’s going to be fine. Everyone up there is drunk as hell and no one’s even guarding the hangar.”

“The hangar,” Poe says. “You need a pilot. You’re Resistance?”

“No!” the knight says. “Well, maybe. I guess, after this.”

“So you’re… defecting?”

The knight stares at him, then flings his arms out. “I’m trying to!” he says in a whisper-shout. “And rescue you! I was assuming you’d be on board with that!”

Poe laughs, a huff of noise that hurts his throat. Well, what has he got to lose? “Okay, kid. Lead the way.”

“I’m a stormtrooper, not a kid,” the knight says, and grabs his hand. “Come on, Dameron. We need to be gone yesterday.”

BOLEROATSO!

so

my dad’s cousin dave always wanted to be a hollywood scriptwriter, but had to give up on it after a year in LA and move back home to take care of the family farm and his aging parents. despite that and other personal setbacks, he still writes and directs his own little videos based on his life in west iowa (LIKE THIS ONE FOR THE DOG HE RESCUED IT’S SO CUTE), proving that even if your Big Dream falls through, you can still create and still be happy

anyway, please enjoy this v. v. soothing and well-edited video of a combine harvesting oats to ravel’s bolero, courtesy of cousin dave

BOLEROATSO!

hannigram 12 do it for meeeeeeee

(x) 12. writer and editor au


Will is underdressed, soaking wet, and has a cup of black coffee in his hands that cost seven dollars; all of which are excuses he’ll give Alana when this client drops them for Simon and Schuster or someshit after seven years with Bloom Publishing and exactly one late afternoon meeting with him.

“… ‘a pile of pretentious garbage,’” the client, one Dr. Lecter, repeats. “I see.”

The wine bar cum coffee shop, Lecter’s preference for the meeting, is unnecessarily dim and a bit too warm. It almost makes the rain outside seem atmospheric, rather than a huge pain in the ass for anyone commuting downtown via public transportation instead of private car, or however Lecter got here. The man has a dusting of mist on the shoulders of his velvety-looking plaid suitjacket, but is otherwise dry down to his wingtips. Opposite him, Will’s buttery leather armchair is doing a great job preserving the puddle growing at the seat of his pants.

“Perhaps you’d care to elaborate,” Lecter says mildly, and Will sets his jaw.

“I’m sorry if that was too frank,” he says, because he owes Alana at least that much. “However, from the standpoint of your previous work, this particular manuscript seems… less developed.”

According to Will’s research, Dr. Lecter is a practicing psychiatrist who occasionally deigns to write what could charitably be called cerebral mystery novels. This book, if it ever makes it to publishing, is in the same vein, and in its current state absolutely unreadable.

“I see,” Lecter says again, fingers steepled in front of him. “Please, continue.”

Will takes a sip from the tall, narrow mug he’d been handed. It tastes weirdly fruity, but at least it’s hot. “At a thirty-thousand foot view? The themes you address are complex, and you don’t have enough progression in the plot to sustain interest or give emotional impact to the conclusion. This is basically five hundred pages of navel-gazing. This character, the murderer, wins by default– your protagonist thinks himself to death.”

Lecter has a faint smile, but before he can speak Will holds up a hand.

“Trust me, I know what you’re about to say. Your book is not going to be on airport bookstore shelves. It’s not for beach reading. Understood. That doesn’t absolve you from the basics of structuring.”

“An interesting choice of words,” Lecter muses. “One that implies I’m committing some kind of crime against literature, yes?”

“I wouldn’t go that far,” Will says, taking another sip of coffee. He’s starting to shiver, even in the heavy warmth of the small bar. “I’m just laying out the reasoning behind my comments in the draft.”

“I received them,” Lecter says. “I must confess, they are quite a bit more detailed that I am used to receiving from Mr. Chilton.”

And when they finally find the guy, I’ll be happy to swap back, Will promises silently. “All the editors at Bloom have their own styles. The goal is not to make this draft unrecognizable from the original, it’s to give it a little more life than your last monograph on psychotic symptoms and Graves’ disease.”

Lecter gives him a slow blink. “You’ve read that,” he says.

“I’ve read everything you’ve ever publically published,” Will says bluntly. Every bloody psychological thriller and niche entry in staid psychiatry tracts, and, “A lot of it was brilliant. Which is why I feel qualified to say that this needs work.”

“A lot of it,” Lecter echos, eyebrows raising.

“Most of it,” Will says, a bit grudgingly, and Lecter’s faint smile makes another appearance.

“Then, Mr. Graham, I look forward to working with you.”


Then Hannibal invites Will up the street to dry his clothes and “see his manuscripts,” heh heh